


like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands

by blueinkedbones



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Season 1, College AU, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No age gap, No underage, Protective Stiles, Warning for Kate Argent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-04-07 23:33:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4282209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueinkedbones/pseuds/blueinkedbones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dad shakes his head. “This isn’t your fault, Derek.”</p><p>“Nothing’s ever my fault,” Derek says, and for a long time after he just covers his face and shudders.</p><p>~</p><p>aka the one where derek's fucktastrophe of terrible season one luck gets smashed together with a college au.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i watched too much svu and had to fix it. gimme ALL the protective stiles A++ YAAS
> 
> (hashtag rose is h/c trash)

Stiles finds Derek in the library, bloody, eyes glazed. His clothes are dirty, torn, sneaker print welts on his palms. Stiles really needs to throw up.

Instead, he barricades the door and calls his dad. After a few moments, he shoulders out of his jacket, covers Derek up. He knows he shouldn’t–it’s screwing with the crime scene, Derek’s a freaking _crime scene_ –but he can’t stand to see Derek left like that, exposed like that. He sits by Derek, after, shoves his hand through his hair.

Pretty soon the door’s rattling, and Stiles checks, is relieved to hear his dad’s voice. Dad gives the room a quick visual sweep, focuses in on Derek, on Stiles’ jacket draped over him. He sighs, rubs his eyes.

“I had to, Dad,” Stiles says. His voice sounds alien, faraway.

Derek stirs a little, groans quietly.

“Son?” Dad says softly, stepping closer.

“Derek,” Stiles says wretchedly. “Derek Hale.”

“Derek,” Dad says gently. “Derek, can you hear me?”

Derek’s eyes open: they’re steadfastly dry, his jaw jutting.

“Yeah,” he says. His voice sounds quiet, too soft for this. “I don't know what happened.”

“That’s what we’re gonna find out,” Dad vows. “but I’m gonna need your help.”

  


At the hospital there’s a small room, stiff cushioned chairs, no family. Derek hasn’t had any since the fire that killed his parents and little sister, since Laura’s suicide. But he has Stiles. He has Stiles. No way Derek’s gonna go through this alone.

“What do you remember?” Dad asks, when Derek’s up to talking.

“Felt weird,” Derek says. The corner of his lip trembles, and he clenches his jaw tight, breathes through his nose for a while, nostrils flaring. Stiles picks at a loose thread in his jeans, carefully not seeing the tear that slips past anyway, swift and silent.

“What did,” Dad says. “Did you drink something? Take something?”

“Had a beer,” Derek says. “I know,” he adds, face heating. He’s barely nineteen, five months older than Stiles, a sophomore by a handful of days and last year's loss of the last person he had to rely on.

Dad shakes his head. “This isn’t your fault, Derek.”

Another tear Stiles refuses to see falls from Derek’s lashes, clings to his chin.

“Nothing’s ever my fault,” Derek says, and for a long time after he just covers his face and shudders.

  


“You shouldn’t be here,” Derek tells Stiles once Dad’s gone. His eyes are raw, voice hoarse and tight.

“You shouldn’t be alone,” Stiles says.

Derek’s mouth twists, eyes shuttering. “You don’t get extra credit for babysitting.”

“No,” Stiles says, affronted. “I’m worried about you, man. I want you to be okay, that’s all.”

“That’s all,” Derek says faintly. “You ever think maybe I shouldn't be?”

“Who's telling you that?” Stiles asks, ready to get his bat and go right now. Just _see_ if he’s bluffing.

“Why’m I the only one left?” Derek mutters. “I’m the only one who did anything–” He stops, inhales sharp and shaky.

“Derek,” Stiles says, horror flooding him. “Whatever you did, if it was an accident–”

“I’m an accident,” Derek says. “Everything i’ve ever done, or said. I told my mom to leave me alone. I told Laura…”

“Laura wasn’t your fault,” Stiles says.

“What was, according to you?” Derek demands. “Or your dad. You’re both so sure–”

“So tell me,” Stiles says. “Tell me what happened to you.”

“Nothing,” Derek rasps, in the worst lie Stiles has ever heard.

“Derek,” Stiles says.

“I don’t know,” Derek says. “I’m–healed, okay, I’m not hurt anymore. There wont be any bruises.”

“On your hands,” Stiles says, but Derek waves them impatiently, and it’s true: the tread patterns are gone.

“They can still do a kit,” Stiles says uncertainly. In the dim light of that library they’d looked like dark bruises, too stark to just disappear. “You sure heal fast.”

“My superpower,” Derek says dryly. “I’m not doing a–a kit, I can’t do that.”

“Your clothes,” Stiles suggests. “They were messed around too, there must be be DNA somewhere.”

“Can't catch smoke,” Derek says softly, almost to himself.

“You can catch people,” Stiles says. “My dad can. He’ll keep you safe.”

Derek huffs, like he’s skeptical. Stiles raises his eyebrows defensively.

“He can’t,” Derek says. “People like me–Things like me. We can’t…”

“You’re not a _thing_ ,” Stiles says viciously. “You’re a person. A really _good_ person.”

“Uh huh,” Derek says faintly, and closes his eyes just before the tears slip down.

  


They take the Jeep back to Derek's dorm; Stiles eyes Derek worriedly before dropping him off. “You sure–”

“You can’t put a sniper on my roof, Stiles,” Derek says tiredly. “I’ll be fine.”

“But you’ll call me,” Stiles prods. “If–if you feel weird, or if something’s not right, you know I can come get you in two minutes. Maybe less.”

“Stiles,” Derek says, impatient. “Let it go. I’ve lived here for almost two years. I know how to find the door by myself.”

“Even my dad takes backup,” Stiles says, thinking: sixteen months. “Doesn’t mean he can’t handle–Alright, alright,” Stiles tells Derek’s scowl. “Pressure off. I’m just saying… There’s options, you know? People who give a crap. Me.”

Derek looks at him for a long moment.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know.”

Then he goes inside.


	2. Chapter 2

All that afternoon Stiles sketches sneaker treads. He takes to glancing at people’s heels as they slouch in their seats and scrape their shoes on the linoleum while the professor clicks through slide after slide. The toe’s a church window, rows of jagged teeth below it; Stiles outlines his best sketch in darker and darker ink until his pen cuts through the paper and leaves him a little cut-out he shoves behind the netting of his looseleaf’s side pocket. His own soles are just thin rows of exes, or diamonds, and they barely leave a mark, even when he stomps on his palm back in his room, and flails sideways, cursing.

He’ll go see Dad, he decides, have him run it through the FBI database. They can find this–whoever, whoever thinks they can just do that and not get drawn and fucking quartered for it. Whoever convinced Derek that it’s hopeless, useless to even bother.

Derek’s hands are wider than Stiles’, but barely; the church window toe treads were exactly centered on his palms, rows of teeth across his wrists. Stiles hates the mental picture that comes with the calculation–someone standing over Derek, holding him down, while–Stiles doesn’t dare think about it. It’s not fair to Derek to see it so clear. It feels like peeping, like standing in a corner watching it happen, even if that’s the furthest thing from the truth.

He skips dinner, heads back to the library. Derek was tucked away by the Russian literature section, stunned and bleary eyed and in pain. Stiles stalks the spot for hours, hounding anyone who comes by: Where were you? Were you _here_? Did you see–

But even the biggest nerds don't come back for Dostoevsky two days in a row, and the sit-in librarian is Jackson Whittemore, who raises his eyebrows and says, “This about your _boy_ friend?”

“Someone got hurt,” Stiles says, struggling not to punch him in his smug face. “Last night, in Russian literature. Someone had to see something.”

“Sorry to ruin your Encyclopedia Brown fantasy,” Jackson snipes, “but some of us have real jobs.”

“You wouldn’t know what a real job was if it knocked your teeth out,” Stiles says coolly.

“We can’t all be pass-arounds,” Jackson says, and something pounds into Stiles’ chest, settles thick in his throat. He leans forward, eyes sharp.

“What did you say?”

“Territorial,” Jackson says. “You really thought you were special, huh.”

“You know what happened to him,” Stiles says. “You know. And you’re gonna tell me.”

“The hottest chick you’ve ever seen happened to him,” Jackson laughs. “What exactly do you think got hurt, huh? More like a cramp, if you ask me. Too much of a workout.”

“What’d she look like,” Stiles says.

“You’re really not giving up on this.” Jackson smirks. “She was tall. Blonde. About a thousand times classier than your hooker Hale.”

“I _will_ punch you,” Stiles warns, throat burning.

“I’ll sue,” Jackson says. “You’ll be buried so far under bills you’ll need every cent of that insurance to bail you out.”

“What insurance,” Stiles says.

“From the fire?” Jackson says, like he’s an idiot. “All those dead bodies had life insurance policies. Pretty suspicious, huh? Doesn’t stop him leathering up like seventies softcore. But I'd do anything to get clean after you. Any _one_."

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Stiles says, disgusted. “Derek’s the nicest guy on this campus. _Not_ to mention he lost literally his whole family barely a year ago, and now someone–” Stiles stops, furious, incredulous. “How desperate are you to be a dick?”

“Call my lawyer,” Jackson shrugs. “Find out.”

“Na, you don’t know crap,” Stiles says, hitching his bag up his shoulder. “You’re just dying to spit scum on Derek. I bet he’s real competition with _Danny_.”

“You shut up,” Jackson snaps, scowling. “I’m not even–There’s nothing wrong with it, but I'm not–”

“Straight as a slinky,” Stiles says, patting him on the shoulder patronizingly. “Have a nice life.”

 

Tall and blonde and Jackson’s form of classy has Stiles drawing a giant blank in record time. Besides that, he’s making no progress finding a matching tread.

Derek seems okay when Stiles checks in on him, back to his quiet, studious self. He’s reading a collection of essays analyzing the deeper meaning of X-Men’s Mystique; it’s the most monotonous lecture Stiles has ever leaned against someone to read, and he copied off Scott’s notes for twelve years. But Derek’s riveted, pressing just a little closer into Stiles’ side, humming contentedly when Stiles’ arm eases around him, so Stiles stays, mouth tugging into something like a grin despite everything that’s happened.

For a few seconds, the world doesn’t seem that bad.

 

“Everything’s gone to shit,” Stiles tells his dad, leaning his palm hard against his forehead to stave off the oncoming headache. “You’re the only good guy left in the world. You and Scott and Derek. Everyone else is all serial killers and abusive–”

“What happened?” Dad says calmly. He’s sitting across a diner booth from Stiles, sifting cherry tomatoes from wilted lettuce like he’s panning for gold.

“So Jackson Whittemore said this crap about Derek,” Stiles says, savagely attacking a burger and fries. “About him being–About people messing him around. And I thought he was crazy, but it’s _true_ , Dad, there’s people–He’s _used_ to it. People shoving him, stealing his stuff–Someone shattered his windshield right in front of him, and he wasn’t even mad about it! He’s just tired. He didn’t even want the guy’s name.”

“But you got it,” Dad says.

“Chris Argent,” Stiles says. ‘Course I did. Just because Derek thinks he doesn’t deserve–But you’re gonna do something, right? This shithead didn’t even try to hide who he was. He looked right at Derek, just about spelled out his name for me. It was like he was taunting Derek. Like he’s so sure we can’t touch him, he doesn’t even care–”

Dad sets down his fork, looking disturbed. “Something’s not right here,” he says. “What’s he got on Derek? Why’s he so sure he’s invincible?”

“Dad,” Stiles says, gulping hugely. “Dad, what if there’s–”

“You can tell Derek right now that he has nothing to be ashamed of,” Dad says, standing. “And I, I am going to have a talk with Mr. Argent.”

“Check his sneakers,” Stiles says grimly.

 

Argent comes back to Derek like a bad omen, says, “You’re pressing charges?”

“Harassment,” Stiles warns, getting in between them. Derek’s eyes are fixed low, jaw tight.

“I don’t care about you,” he says, and glares when Stiles tries to take his arm. “What are you doing?”

“I’m just trying to help,” Stiles says.

“I don’t _need_  your _help_ ,” Derek says tightly. “I’m not wasting my time on an Argent.”

“He broke your windshield,” Stiles says.

“He can break a lot more than that,” Derek says, fists sunk deep in his pockets. “I don’t care.”

Stiles swallows hard, says, “Derek, if he hurt–”

“Enough,” Derek snaps. “Just–Stop, alright? I don’t care. I don’t. _Care!_ So stop trying to throw me a fucking sympathy parade! Just leave me alone, Stiles.”

He stalks off, glaring at nothing.

Stiles just stands there, rooted on the spot.

“You’re gonna go down for this,” he snarls at Argent.

“How well do you know Derek Hale?” Argent says, unimpressed.

“He’s not the one bullying a college kid,” Stiles snaps. “He doesnt owe anyone answers.”

“You’d think that, wouldn’t you,” Argent says. “Once you see his true face, you’ll understand.”

Just like that Derek’s back. “Stay the hell away from him. He’s _human_.”

“He better stay that way,” Argent says darkly. Stiles' creases his brow, mystified. “We don’t need another Whittemore.”

“What’s he–” Stiles starts, but the look on Derek’s face stops him short. Derek’s eyes are bright, mouth just parted. and all across his face–this terrible, heartwrenching guilt.

“C'mon,” Stiles says, and grabs Derek’s arm. “Let’s lose this creep.”

Derek lets himself be led.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oish


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no italics! i'm on mobile while i camp with my sister
> 
> edit: figured out ems yay

Six months ago, Derek Hale was a project. More accurately, Stiles’ psychology project: choose a founder or creator, and locate the psychological roots of their foundation or creation.

Jackson suggested Derek Hale; Stiles didn’t question why Jackson was being so helpful rather than using him himself. He was, in hindsight, a fucking moron. 

But Derek nodded, looking just a little worn down at the edges, but also, holy god, like the most attractive human being Stiles had ever seen off a screen. 

“My mom was the Hale descendant,” Derek started, in Beacon Hills Bagels, a half-empty cafe and bakery. “My dad took her name. That’s how things were, with them. He’d go crazy trying to impress her, all these big gestures. And she just wanted to be a normal person.”

The past tense should have been a tip-off. The look on Derek’s _face_. but all Stiles said was, “My dad used to buy my mom these flowers. He bought them for her once when they were dating and she said she didn’t like flowers, so after they had a fight he got her, like, a giant wreath of orchids. And she rolled her eyes and laughed and the started talking again.”

Stiles didnt know why his mouth kept going, after that.

“He still buys these, these giant bouquets every year,” he said. “And every year we go to where she is and kind of stand around and… wait for the laugh. Or something. It’s this, I don’t know, it’s the closest thing to tradition we–We’re not, like, religious, or anything. It’s not like we–But you wait, you know? For something to happen. Anyway.”

It’s the most Stiles had said to anyone about any of this. He didnt exactly know what was wrong with him.

But Derek was studying him, thumb sweeping under an eye almost imperceptibly.

“Do you really have a psychology project about founders?” he asked. 

“Founders and creators,” Stiles said. 

“And,” Derek said, voice oddly still, “You just picked me? Out of anyone you could have asked.”

“The Hale family founded Beacon Hills,” Stiles said. Then, a little uneasily, he added, “Jackson Whittemore said you–”

“Said you’d really get a story if you talked to me, right?” Derek bit out. “If you asked me about my family. My burned up alive for _nothing_ family, my died _screaming_ little _sister_ –”

“Wait,” Stiles said. “I didn’t–God, I swear to god the only thing I know about your family is the founder thing and what you said right now. I swear to god, man, you have to believe me.”

“You said you weren’t religious,” Derek said, but he’d relaxed again.

“Yeah, well, apparently I’m a gullible moron,” Stiles said wearily. “I am… so sorry. Was it–I mean, do you know if… Do you know…”

“Suspected arson,” Derek said. “Now it’s an accident. The truth? Is nobody gives a crap about it one way or the other. No survivors. No witnesses. Case closed.”

“That’s… Derek,” Stiles said, sick. “Who did the investigation? Did my–My dad’s the sheriff. I’m gonna–” He thrashed a hand through his backpack, came up with his phone. “That’s insane. not even knowing, that’s–Dad? Dad, I need to talk to you.”

Less than an hour later, Derek was dead-eyed and dejected, and Stiles was bristling with outrage.

“That’s crap,” he said. “That’s such– _crap_. What, so just risk having some dangerous arsonist on the loose because it _looks_ like it was an accident? What about when it was suspected arson? They don’t just _say that_ –”

“Stiles,” Derek said tiredly. “You tried. That’s more than most.”

“It’s not _enough_ ,” Stiles said. “Dude, I’m sorry, but I’m not dropping this. All those people…” He clamped his mouth shut at the look on Derek’s face. He looked–lost. And dangerously near tears.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles said. “I'm an insensitive shithead. They’re your family, god. I’m not–I mean, I’m still gonna do some digging. but I’m done grinding your face in it.”

“I wanna know,” Derek said, jaw tensed. “Whatever you find out. Theories. Anything. I wanna know.”

“Oh,” Stiles said. He nodded, kept nodding. “Of course.”

“Promise me,” Derek said.

“I promise,” Stiles said. “Everything. Every theory. I swear.”

“Give me your phone,” Derek said. Stiles obeyed on autopilot. “That’s my number. I want daily updates. I don’t care what time it is.”

And that’s how Stiles became friends with Derek Hale.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> no i swear i'm working on howl and atd. this is just my little guilty pleasure fic. no stress, no overthinking. but you willl get an update soon bbs im sorry for being such an anxious puppy

“You’re gonna regret this once you see what my theories look like,” Stiles said, but Derek never managed to. Stiles really was king of the undersell, the let me lower your expectations before my awkward punches it in the face. And maybe someone else could think the constant chatter was annoying, the frantic bursts of energy, frenetic excitement over this, no this, but holy crap _this_ –

But Derek grew up with a little sister who got so angry she blurred. His mom could get his attention from space. Peter’s every act was meticulously styled. Dad was more like Derek, but even he had his moments. Their pack was noise and bustle and warmth all through the core of you.

Stiles and his dad, and the flowers… You wanna believe some of that life is still out there. You want to keep it close, keep it safe. At least this time. 

Jackson Whittemore played a trick on Stiles. Set him up to look like a dick, to feel awful. Stiles told Derek about his mom. Without knowing, he just–And Jackson tried to _hurt_ him.  


Derek’s anger, long steaming, bubbled over.

 

“Jackson,” Stiles says, barely awake.

Derek stills, his neck tense against the line of Stiles’ shoulder. 

“Hey, hey,” Stiles says, petting Derek close to content again. “Just, is he… Does he mess with you? More than…” 

“He tricked you,” Derek says. 

“No, I know,” Stiles says. Derek’s gone tense again. “But, like, worse than that. Like, what Argent does.”

Derek turns stony. “I don’t need help with the Argents.”

“There’s more than one?” Stiles says. “And they’re all assholes. Why… I mean… It’s not like, saying you can’t handle it, or whatever. You don’t need to prove anything to me, I know you’re a superhero. But Chris Argent’s stalking you, man, he’s escalating. Guys like that have to keep topping themselves, keep…” Stiles shakes his head. 

“My dad tracked him down to his house,” he says. “Argent. And he’s got guns. A whole storage room full of–like, _Hot Fuzz_ level of guns. All legal, so my dad couldn’t… But he wants to get you security. More than, than me stumbling onto things after the fact.”

“Someone’s following me, so I need someone to follow me,” Derek says dryly. 

Stiles huffs, shoves a hand through his hair. “Why do you do that?” he asks. “Shrug everything off like it’s nothing. Some psycho could be gunning for you, don’t you care? I’m so fucking scared I can’t breathe sometimes, man. If anything happened to you…” There’s, like, a literal frog in Stiles’ throat. He’s going to be sick, he’s sure of it. 

“I can heal,” Derek says softly. 

Stiles shudders. “You can’t–Not a _bullet_.” 

“Anything,” Derek says. “I can take it. I’ll be okay." 

“That is so insane,” Stiles says, near impressed. Near tears. “That’s… Do you care? If, if he came after you again, if he was packing. Would you even try to get away?" 

“I won’t run from an Argent,” Derek says. “I wanna see the look on their faces. I wanna hear them say it.” 

“Say–” Stiles eyes go wide. “ _Them_? My dad, tell my dad, he’ll–” He's thrumming with energy, focus, sudden fucking _clarity_. Of _course_ Argent's that evil. And he's got, what, a whole pack of psychos making Derek miserable, and Derek _lets_ them, because he just wants a confession. 

“I wanna hear her tell me why,” Derek says, low. 

“Why they set the fire?" That's too easy. "They’re _insane_ , that’s why–" 

“Why they won't just kill me too,” Derek says. 

**Author's Note:**

> vus?


End file.
